


Shock Treatment

by Solitary_Shadow



Category: Rammstein
Genre: Crossdressing, Dogs, Dubious Consent, M/M, Mein Teil, Metafiction, Psychological Horror, Rambling, WTF
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-18
Updated: 2012-04-18
Packaged: 2017-11-03 21:40:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,008
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/386252
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Solitary_Shadow/pseuds/Solitary_Shadow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Paul Landers goes on a date with a crazy bitch. Hold on, honey. I'm going to make you scream. [Paul Landers x Frau Schneider. More warnings inside.]</p>
            </blockquote>





	Shock Treatment

**Author's Note:**

> **Disclaimer: I do not know any of the members of Rammstein, this is strictly a work of fiction and I do not profit nor claim to represent true aspects of their lives in this story.**
> 
>  
> 
> Warnings: Disturbing content. Paul Landers/Frau Schneider. Spoilers, violence, incoherent rambling, strong language, violence, metafiction, sexual themes and alluded sex (no explicit description), tastelessness, black comedy, a dark tone throughout, dubious consent, emotional instability, psychological horror, crossing of multiple lines, wasting of good chocolate, and terrible Italian food. Abusive relationship trigger warning.

**Shock Treatment - A Rammstein Fanfiction**  
  
\-------------------------------------------  
  
Another day is over at the studio. A slew of voices call out goodbyes as I sling my guitar over my shoulder, skipping across the corridor and giving them a thumbs-up and a wave. Ahh, my fellow bandmates. Gotta love them.  
  
I light up a smoke before I get in my car and drive home, ready to freshen up for my evening. I'm feeling good, in tip-top condition, and ready for a fun night out.  
  
Shower, flex my arms a little, admire myself in the mirror. I'm not usually vain, but I have a really good feeling about tonight. Perhaps I'll run across a cute angel tonight, a girl who's ready to have some happy times with me, one girl who'll hopefully have blonde hair and blush and giggle sweetly at everything I say.  
  
I have a bandmate who's _actually_ a trained classical pianist, so I can't compare to him really - but I'll say, I still have what we call pianist fingers back from the days when I used to play the piano. And by that I mean long fingers, slim and deft and _juuuust_ right to slip in... heheh. You know what I mean. The point is that I have them and I'm very good with them.  
  
Don't believe me? Heh. It doesn't matter. I'm ready to chase some tail. Come over, ladies.  
  
\-----  
  
I see her, my chosen angel, first in the library. I don't usually visit there often, but there's a few books on music theory that I need to take back. I'm wearing sunglasses and casual clothes that hide my tattoos as to not get recognized easily; of course it makes pursuing anyone considerably more difficult. Paul Landers the rhythm guitarist of Rammstein can pick up anyone he wants, girls or guys. Paul the random guy wearing jeans and a jacket has it a bit harder than that. But I like the challenge, it's how normal people must feel. But that's not the point. As I drop off my books and give the indifferent young librarian (glasses, ponytail, neat blue uniform, too young for me) a nod, I glance around - and see her.  
  
Interesting woman. She looks about my age. Moving a little closer to the bookshelves where she's standing, I sneak a look at what the heading of the shelf is - Dewey decimal class 641.5, 'Cookbooks', the heading tells me. She's flicking through one about French cuisine; I've always liked a woman who can cook well, and from what I can see, this is one of them. Classy as hell, too, with the neat little suit she's wearing along with clean stockings and modest heels. I like stockings. Her hair is kind of dark blonde, and she's wearing a string of pearls; I can't figure out what her job might be, but whatever it is, she's clearly very comfortable working in it. Nice face too, a little expressionless and she has surprisingly prominent, well-set features as opposed to the more delicate features I'm used to seeing, but it adds a striking touch. Figure is fairly toned, perhaps she works out. With her gaze still buried in the cookbook, she takes it and herself a few more bookshelves away to the left - I like thinking of myself as a gentleman, so I give her a few moments before seeking her out again.  
  
I think tonight's going to be quite interesting.  
  
Dewey decimal class 798.8, 'Dogs', she's in now. She doesn't stay very long there, but picks out about three books in rapid succession without even flicking through them. It's as if she knows that section particularly well. Her search over, and still oblivious to my presence, she clicks her way in her heels towards the self-checkout machine and checks the four books out. Very methodical. I tug my sunglasses a little more up the bridge of my nose, ready to carry on observing her outside should she leave now - but contrary to expectations, she just goes to sit by one of the tables and pulls out a newspaper from her handbag to read, crossing her legs neatly and leaning back.  
  
Again, I give her a few moments before approaching her. Keep smooth, Paul. Smile for the lady. You have a smile that most men would die for. "Hello, sweetheart."  
  
She glances at me, and back down at the newspaper. As if my existence doesn't matter to her. Playing hard to get. I like the type. Most inexperienced men would press ahead at this point, asking more questions to try to get closer when they're actually driving the girl away, but I know better. Give her space, let her be accustomed to my presence - and soon enough, she looks back up.  
  
"Yes?"  
  
Mysteriously appealing. Lower voice than I expected, but it's a sexy kind of low, a pleasant alto that excites me.  
  
"The library's closing soon. I couldn't leave such a lovely lady such as yourself to depart alone, could I? Would you like to go and get something to eat?"  
  
"That would be lovely. But you're paying."  
  
Smile. Oh, this is an interesting one. "But of course. It's only etiquette for a gentleman such as myself."  
  
"Good."  
  
She then looks back down at the newspaper. We sit there for several long moments, and she doesn't look back up; eventually I feel myself getting a little restless. "So. Are we going to go, or what?"  
  
She looks up at me, and without warning, folds up the newspaper and shoves it on my lap. "Have a read through the headlines," she says. I comply, feeling a little baffled - 'German cannibal on the loose', it says. Ew.  
  
"That's, um, interesting."  
  
"Of course it is. They don't know who exactly it is yet. I'm keeping up with the news. I want the cannibal found. I want to know _why_ he's doing it. It ought to be interesting. Cutting up all those people. Eating. Chewing. Why would you do that? There _must_ be a motive."  
  
Um.  
  
Right.  
  
She glances at me scornfully. "You look disgusted. Well, love, it's reality. This is what happens in real life. You ought not be afraid of realism."  
  
"I never said I was."  
  
"You look disgusted. You're running from it. Life isn't a dream, you know. The world is a very ugly place."  
  
Try to steer the conversation towards more conventional topics. "How old are you, sweetheart?"  
  
"It's not polite to ask a lady her real age, you know that, right?"  
  
" _Touché,_ " I say, and wink at her. "you look old enough to be successful and young enough to be a beauty, so we'll just leave it at that. So if you won't mind me asking, what's your name? Everything and everyone has a name. It's only polite that I address you with one instead of 'sweetheart' all the time."  
  
She pauses, but it's a thoughtful pause, not one that indicates that she has no intention of answering. "Christina," she finally says. "I suppose I can let you know that much."  
  
"Lovely name. I'm Paul."  
  
"Paul," she repeats. "I'll remember that."  
  
Then she stands up, and folds the newspaper neatly back into her handbag. It's here I notice that she is quite a few inches taller than me, which does make me feel a little deflated - goddamned height complex. She looks like she'd be taller than me even without the heels. But she's not insisting we walk side by side or anything, which should rectify the situation a little as we walk out of the glass doors. "Where to, then? Do you have a place in mind, or would you like me to choose?"  
  
"We're going to Luigi's," she says emotionlessly. "I'll lead the way. I doubt you know where it is, it's far downtown. I'm going to have the penne pasta with chicken and tomato sauce with basil sprinkled on top of it, served with a platter of simple ciabatta bread. You're going to have the spaghetti with carbonara sauce, and if you're a good boy I'll let you have some of the ciabatta bread I'm ordering. You're paying for everything, as previously stated, and we'll talk and talk and talk over wine and Italian food. I will tell you everything you will ever need to know about myself and more. You will repeat the process against me. We'll leave afterwards with the bill paid, full of food and too much information about each other, and then I'm going to lead you to a _Frei Körper Kultur_ zone in a random park. I'm not into naturism, but it's conveniently nearby. Because it'll be past ten by that point, it'll be cold and hopefully there will be no naked people lounging about spoiling our fun. There we're going to sit on a bench and you're going to buy me a box of twelve filled chocolates from Coppeneur at the overnight shop nearby and I'll be eating those while we talk some more. Some of those chocolates are liquor, and I'm a woman who can't handle much liquor so I'll end up having too much. If you're a good boy, again, you can have some. But I'll spit out the cherry one because I can never tell which one that is and I hate cherries. After that, we'll go to my place and fuck and you'll enjoy every second of it. Sound good?"  
  
Blink. Blink. Uh... what?  
  
"Really. You'll love it. I promise. Cross my heart. I'll even do you up the ass with a strap-on if you want me to. I'm good with strap-ons."  
  
"Um, thanks but no thanks. Do we... uh, have to do everything exactly in that way?"  
  
"Yes. Yes. We do."  
  
"What if I want to deviate from that sequence a little?"  
  
"Oh, sweetie," she tells me with a little smile. "you don't have much choice."  
  
Before I can reply she has her lips on mine, kissing aggressively and forcing her way into my mouth. Incredibly forward for a lady, and kind of painful actually - but - but it feels _good_. Her mouth tastes of champagne truffle, a pleasant taste, and her lipstick is warm and not at all sticky to the touch. When I kiss back, that's when she withdraws a little and become a little more submissive, letting me take the lead. She throws her arms around my neck, clinging to me with almost a sweet girlish dependence, and this keeps me calm. She might be crazy, but... but crazy might be interesting...  
  
And then it's over. She gets off me, her expression completely relaxed and cool as if the kiss never happened. "Let's go," she says, and then without warning she takes out a little remote and presses something on it, sending a hot jolt of pain down my neck and making me cry out. "just a test run. Good. It's working. Be a good boy and that'll only have to happen just that time."  
  
"What the... what the fuck?"  
  
She doesn't answer and starts walking, leading the way. Whatever happened, I can guess that it's going to happen again if I don't follow, so I hurriedly walk along at her heels while I feel around my neck.  
  
Son of a bitch.  
It's a shock collar. She must have fastened it during the embrace, using her kiss to distract me.  
  
I don't even get to protest about this as she pauses and rests her left foot on a nearby bench under the pretense of pulling her stocking up a little, revealing that she's wearing a black-and-red garter around her thigh underneath her skirt - with a medium-size butcher knife in a sheath strapped to it.  
  
Holy shit. Damn me and my big mouth. What have I gotten myself into?  
  
\-----  
  
I thought Italian restaurants were usually classy places, but I've been proven wrong. But I've been proven wrong about a lot of things tonight, and what's one more to add onto it?  
  
To be fair, the restaurant itself is nice. As Christina specified, she gets the penne with chicken and tomato sauce while I get the spaghetti carbonara. Wine selection is good too, although I'm not permitted to order any of my favorites. "I hope you like rosé," she tells me when I'm looking over the wine menu. "I only drink rosé wine. If you know what's good for you you'll order the _Weissherbst_ and nothing else because I think both red and white wine taste like shit. No offence."  
  
Right. Rosé coming up. No, I don't like rosé. Whatever. I'm a famous musician with a shock collar around my neck being held hostage by a crazy bitch with a knife. What more can I lose.  
  
The spaghetti tastes like, to put it politely, a disaster. Goes beyond _al dente_. The pasta itself isn't done properly at all and whenever I take a forkful I can hear it crunch lightly; the bacon's the only thing bearable about it and even then it feels kind of raw somehow, and the cream-butter carbonara is horribly greasy. In short it's disgusting and I stop eating after only a few bites. Christina's eating her own pasta very neatly, though, steadily working her way through it. Either her pasta is okay, or she's got no sense of taste. Given that we're the only ones in the restaurant right now, I'm willing to bet on the latter.  
  
She nods towards my plate. "I don't see you eating."  
  
"I'm paying. Your point?"  
  
"You have to eat."  
  
"Why?"  
  
"You have to. I'm only one body. We both have to do this if we're to make tonight work."  
  
"Are you threatening me?"  
  
"Glad that you've finally figured it out. Now eat up, darling."  
  
Eat food that I've verified is disgusting. Good idea. I'm so excited. I consider myself a man of patience but this is really starting to piss me off. "Christina... give me a break!"  
  
She looks up, her blue eyes gleaming dangerously and her teeth clenched. Her teeth are pearly white and even and with the natural fierceness of her features, she's getting sexier and more disturbing by the minute. "What?"  
  
"I wouldn't let my dog eat this!"  
  
" _You **are** a dog!_ "  
  
This comes out of absolutely nowhere. Before I can even blink, a hard shock runs down the back of my neck and she's swiped her hand right across the table, knocking the centerpiece of fake flowers in a vase to the floor. The entire vase topples over and drops to the carpeted floor, the plastic flowers glued within it hanging limply as it rolls across the ground for a few centimeters before stopping. And she's on her feet, glaring at me, the only sound in the air that of the merry chef and waitress chatting each other up by the kitchen.  
  
"So stereotypical of you, isn't it," she snarls as I grasp my throat, panting heavily and trying to ease the shock. "you can't even man up for a minute to eat from this fine establishment all because it doesn't cater to your alpha male tastes! You won't feed it to your dog, huh? Well, love, clearly you have no idea how fine dog food can be, don't you know that there are actual _standards_ for dog food because people will actually eat it when they're desperate? You think most people have palates so fine that they can actually tell the difference between dog food and cold beef stew?" she slams a fist on the table. Where is that waitress when you need her? "that's just so typical of the male ego, thinking that you're better than everyone else! Of course you're like a dog, what do you think you have that shock collar for? "  
  
"This... this place is far from fine."  
  
"Jesus. Okay. Look, Paul. I'm going to count to five now. Before the countdown's over you better be tucking into that carbonara, or you'll become part of it. Because I'm going to shock you so hard you'll end up face-down on the plate and you won't be getting back up."  
  
Her composure is completely gone.  
  
" _Eins!_ "  
  
Pick up my fork. Hurriedly shovel some into my mouth.  
  
" _Zwei!_ "  
  
Swallow. Feels kind of like eating needles of pig slop. Not that I know what that feels like, but this must be pretty close. Have you ever tried swallowing anything after being tased by a shock collar?  
  
"That was genuinely painful, Christina. Disgusting. I feel like my guts are going to implode and I've only eaten about five bites altogether."  
  
"Pain is simply a process we undergo in order to understand others. Only other thing that does the job better is tears. Ideally _both_ should be combined."  
  
Oh my God. This bitch is insane. She stares at me for a long moment.  
  
"... Let me tell you about my dogs."  
  
I blink. "What?"  
  
"Dogs. My. Let me tell you about my dogs."  
  
"What's that got to do with pain? Why don't you tell me about your pain instead so we might understand each other a bit better? After all, according to you, I need to do my part for tonight too, right?"  
  
"Let's not now," she says, and sits back down, going back to eating her penne as if nothing happened. "let's talk about my dogs."  
  
I don't know where we're going with this. But she's calm for the time being. Play it smooth, Paul. Agree to what the lady's saying, she has the upper hand. I nod, and she pulls out a stack of photos from her handbag immediately as if rehearsed. Great. One of the types who ramble on about how perfect their darling pooch is, no doubt.  
  
Needless to say, when she passes me the photos, I'm proven wrong again.  
  
"They," I stare at the photos. Discomforting images of four men kneeling in front of bowls, shackled and collared and snarling at the camera, greets me. "they, uh, don't look very much like dogs to me."  
  
"You think so?"  
  
"They look like men. Sex slaves. Gigolos, whatever, you get my drift, but not dogs as in, Golden Retrievers."  
  
"Oh, Paul," she sighs, rolling her eyes and tucking the photos back in her handbag. She's clearly not impressed. "what did Golden Retrievers ever do to you?"  
  
I finish off my forkful and place it back down. I honestly can't eat any more of this. She raises an eyebrow, but doesn't protest this time - and when the waitress comes over, she nods and lets the girl take the plate. I order a coffee to try to get the taste of burnt spaghetti out of my mouth. "You said you'd tell me all about yourself," I speak up just as she's nearly finished. Need to keep her talking. Hopefully for something that won't set her off.  
  
"I did. Want some ciabatta?"  
  
"No thank you. So. You like dogs. I gathered that. Tell me more about yourself. The pain you went through. I want to listen, especially now that I don't have to focus on eating disgusting carbonara."  
  
She pauses and looks at me, sipping her wine. "It's not a very interesting story."  
  
"I won't be going anywhere, sweetheart. Go on. I'm listening."  
  
Christina swallows the last mouthful of her penne, but doesn't put down her fork, chewing slowly and contemplatively before starting to talk. "I was born in East Germany in 1966," she says blankly. "and as you can imagine, East Germany wasn't a fun place to live. I always wanted to get into a music university but they turned me down twice. Not good enough for them I guess. Not as if they offered very much anyway, considering this was East Germany. But you aren't interested in my adult life, it's all the same old, same old. You want me to tell you about my childhood and difficult teenage years, before Germany was united again, so you can muster up an ounce of sympathy for me," this is true, but I don't let it on as she twirls her fork in one hand. "well, my father wasn't very happy with me while I was growing up, that's for sure. He never approved of anything I wanted to do. I still loved the bastard, though. Even though he beat all of us. Even though he tried to make me play instruments that I didn't want to play and tried to make me go into jobs that I didn't want. I was heartily sick of all that, and there was also the fact that I had other siblings too who needed feeding. Hated that place. Got out as fast as I could."  
  
"Touching."  
  
"I know, right? You're getting it. All this is quite depressing, so I'll tell you a joke about East Berlin. It's a really funny one. Cross my heart and hope to die. How do you know which side of the Berlin Wall you're in at any given time? Put a banana on the top of the wall and come back after ten minutes. East is where a bite has been taken out of it."  
  
Stare. "That's not funny."  
  
"Well, I didn't write the joke. Christina _zwei_ , Paul _null_."  
  
"What? I don't have a single point?"  
  
"You did. But you lost them because you're a boring and oh-so-stereotypical dog of a guy."  
  
"Geez, woman. You really are obsessed with dogs, aren't you?"  
  
"Dogs _are_ men's best friend, after all," she puts down her fork and wipes her mouth daintily. Lipstick stains on the baby-blue napkin. "and to be quite frank, sometimes it's hard to tell the difference between both."  
  
"Isn't that somewhat misandrist of you?"  
  
"No, it's not. Humans are animals. Dogs are animals. Only difference is that you can muzzle a dog whenever you want to shut them up."  
  
She's clearly not interested in talking about anything that doesn't involve dogs.  
  
"In the end we're all just walking piles of flesh, meat, blood and bones. Dogs, cats, us, whatever. That's all we are."  
  
Cough. "This is all getting too existential for me."  
  
"You'll get used to it. Well, then. It's your turn. Tell me about yourself, that was also part of the bargain."  
  
I lean back as the coffee arrives, with a little silver pot of milk and sugar handy. This coffee actually smells okay, and I add some milk to it - hmm, yes, it is a nice coffee. Perhaps the carbonara's the only thing disgusting about this restaurant, though I can't say that makes me feel better about this restaurant. I mean, I had to eat the damn thing. "I'm also from East Germany," I begin slowly. "but born in 1964 and not there, either. Ethnically I'm Eastern-European, lived in Moscow and everything. I can speak Russian, for one - _dobryj večer_. There you go. I didn't get along very well with my father either, so that's something we have in common, right? He gave me a terrible name."  
  
"And that was?"  
  
"Heiko. What the hell kind of name is _Heiko._ "  
  
She raises an eyebrow, but it's actually kind of a sympathetic kind of expression she's wearing on her face now. "Wow. That _is_ pitiful. Honestly."  
  
"You got it. 'Paul' is so much better. All my life I've been plagued with terrible luck. I'm short as hell too, premature birth. But nevertheless I've become what I wanted to be, a musician, so - happy ending, I guess?"  
  
"I see. What do you usually listen to?"  
  
"Our stuff."  
  
"What do you usually listen to, sans your stuff?"  
  
"I can't say I have," I manage a chuckle at my own wit. "I haven't listened to any music recently, actually. I've been too busy being a musician."  
  
She stares at me before she bursts out laughing; it's a surprisingly sweet laugh, tinkling and melodic, and for a moment I almost forget that the woman is capable of killing me right now. "I like you," she says. "I really do."  
  
"That's, uh, nice."  
  
"I've liked you for a long time. I see you coming out of this building near the library with your guitar slung over your shoulder all the time. All the damn time. I've wondered what it would be like to go on a date with you."  
  
Great. She's a stalker too?  
  
"I'd have followed you home. I know where you live. I know who you are, Paul Landers."  
  
I would be freaked out more that she knew who I was all along if I haven't gone through the confusion of a lifetime already. I look down at the finished mug of coffee. "Yes, yes, Christina. I guess you got me there. Can we just go?"  
  
She stands up. "I was about to suggest that myself. We're off to the park now."  
  
"Awesome. Let me go to the bathroom first."  
  
Christina nods, and I pay the bill before heading to the bathroom. It comes to 45 Euros, and even though that's not much for me, it feels like the most wasteful 45 Euros I've ever spent in my life. The only thing good about it for me was the coffee and there wasn't enough of it. That's not the disconcerting part, though. She follows me. To the bathroom. Not just hovering outside the door to make sure I'm not about to slip out, either. I mean _in_ the bathroom, in the _men's_ room, standing calmly beside me and watching silently.  
  
"Christina," I clear my throat, my hand awkwardly resting on the zipper. "if you would - please - this isn't even the right bathroom-"  
  
"Don't be such a prude," she says nonchalantly. "I've seen my dogs do even worse."  
  
Jesus Christ. "Do you really get off on watching men piss or something? A prim lady like you? Never would have imagined."  
  
She shrugs and opens her mouth to retort - but something I've said seems to have broken her chain of thoughts, and without looking back she turns and leaves the bathroom, her heels clicking evenly on the tiled floor. I sigh in relief and what might be a little glimmer of triumph. Christina two, Paul one. Getting there.  
  
\-----  
  
Half an hour later we're sitting on a park bench, smelling heavily of mildew. Christina doesn't seem to mind any of that. As promised, she's tucking into the box of Coppeneur chocolates that I bought her; she lets me have two and says that she's being generous. They're Tia Maria, my favourite, and Amaretto, my least favourite. Why does life have to be so bipolar at points?  
  
"You can have more, if you want, I'm feeling _spectacularly_ generous tonight. I want you to be drunk on liquor until you smile."  
  
"I don't think any amount can make me smile now."  
  
She smiles at me, and I'm amazed at how pristine her smile is despite the fact that she's eaten about half the box in rapid succession. Her make-up isn't even smudged; she touched it up a little at the restaurant, sure, but that was all that was needed. "I won't force you. The amount of alcohol we've ingested so far will prove you wrong."  
  
But she doesn't shock me again into submission, or anything. She simply pauses, staring into the distance and up at the silvery moon and stars. It's a new moon, thin and starved as it hangs limply from the sky. "You know, this kind of thing is how true love is born. Don't you think?"  
  
"Sure," I respond, not sure how much sarcasm is showing through. True love? What, she's a romanticist now? "I guess! Tonight has been... fabulous! I can totally see a beautiful, lasting, loving relationship coming from this!"  
  
She giggles. Sounds like silver bells ringing, the kind you see on wedding favors and ring to make the couples kiss. Sweet at first but gets quickly annoying. Luckily she only does it once, keeping the charm completely as she cuddles up next to me. I'm kind of creeped out, but at the same time relieved that she's not being the wrong kind of crazy. Why couldn't she have been like this sooner?  
  
The bench is warm now. The breeze is a little too strong to be pleasurable, but her heat and mine conducts through our clothes as we sit close and eat chocolates. This is more like the conventional date. I smile at her and she smiles at me and for a moment, we're smiling for love before I remember that this doesn't make her any less of a lunatic.  
  
I forget the pressure of the collar. I forget the knife under her skirt. I let go of my mortality.  
  
"Am I everything you wanted?"  
  
"That and more," I tell her.  
  
"I've always been like this. Two entities in one. You've realized that I'm never in a consistent mood, right? I know you have. And maybe that freaked you out a little and I'm sorry. Sometimes getting more than what you asked for just means extra baggage instead of more goodies. More often than not, it's the former."  
  
The universe is complete with both of us. Christina in her insane glory, me in my too sane glory.  
Too bad it results in an utterly jacked up dimension.  
  
She's staring at me again.  
  
"I don't _like_ being this way," she tells me, and suddenly she lets out a sob into my arm. "I really don't. It's terrible. Duality is a terrible thing. I wish I could just be two people."  
  
What the hell am I supposed to say that?  
Aw, hell. I'm weak to ladies' tears. Awkwardly pat her on the back.  
  
She's a vulnerable soul. But aren't we all?  
  
"No tears, sweetheart, no tears," I coo to her just as awkwardly. "here. Have the last chocolate."  
  
She takes it. Chews it. Then turns away from me to spit it right back onto the pavement.  
  
" _Kirschwasser,_ " she says, calmly sitting back up. "disgusting."  
  
Not as disgusting as seeing a lady spitting an entire chocolate right back up, but I don't tell her that. She stands up and tosses the box into a nearby bin before looking back at me.  
  
"We're going back to my apartment now. And we're going to fuck. I hope you're ready, Paul Landers."  
  
\-----  
  
Her apartment is surprisingly clean and elegantly decorated. Wouldn't expect a decor like this from a female, but then Christina is the furthest thing from a conventional female and besides she's pressing up against me and kissing me and I can barely think. Barely even get the front door closed. Without a word she tugs me into the bedroom, not even giving me a chance to take off my shoes.  
  
Fall back on the bed. Inhale her perfume, musky and sweet and smelling faintly of lavender, and I find myself rather turned on at that. It's such a soft scent. I like soft things. Move my hand to her chest, but my hands are batted away, quickly grabbed and fastened to the bedposts with cold handcuffs. God knows where she produced those, but then I keep forgetting that tonight is about sexual molestation, shitty eating, quasi-philosophical rambling, dogs, and a crazy dog lady. My ankles are also fastened in a similar manner and she places a silk blindfold around my eyes, before I hear the slither of her skirt and suit jacket falling to the floor.  
  
"What's the matter? Shy that I'll see you naked? After all we've been through tonight, baby?"  
  
"Oh, you're going to pay for that."  
  
Goddamn it. Damn me and my big mouth. Again. My pants are tugged down roughly, and she's - oh damn, she's skilled. I'd be turned on more if she wasn't so crazy. My ears are ringing and its not a sound that I appreciate at this particular moment. Then my thoughts are interrupted when she presses something hard at my backside. "What the hell is that?"  
  
"A strap-on."  
  
"Feels a bit too realistic, doesn't it?"  
  
"Think of it whatever you like. Whatever it is, it's going up your ass," she says.  
  
"You're not putting _anything_ up there!"  
  
"Everybody likes it from behind," Christina pins me down with a surprisingly strong grip, and through the blindfold I swear I can see her grinning like a maniac. "some just don't know it yet."  
  
 _Ahhhhhh!_  
  
\-----  
  
Long story short, no, actually, nothing gets put up there.  
  
What does happen is that my shock collar is attached to a dog leash, which she is holding and periodically tugs at. She's on top of me.  
If you think females can't violate males, there's a huge wake up call for you. Abuse is abuse, whether female or male.  
  
There's a moral to all of this. God help me if I can figure out what, though.  
  
"Bark for me."  
  
"What?"  
  
"You heard me, doggy. Bark for me. Come on, woof woof. That's a good boy."  
  
I don't. That is the most spectacularly unsexy thing ever. As I try to block out what's happening my mind wanders to all of the men in those photographs, her dogs as she called them, and I wonder if they all went through the same thing.  
  
\----  
  
After what feels like an eternity, she moves off me and we're done. It was at least half an hour. "I hope you liked that, sweetie."  
  
"Fuck you."  
  
"You did."  
  
"Ugh. Please don't remind me that we, uh, just bumped uglies."  
  
"Oh, Paul. That's such an _icky_ way to put it."  
  
The blindfold is taken off, but my wrists and ankles are still secured firmly to the bedposts. She's already dressed, and without much hesitation, she slips out the butcher knife from her garter and points it at my naked body.  
  
What? This was all over, right?  
  
 _Right?_  
  
"I hope you're ready to die," Christina says, no trace of emotion in her voice as she holds the butcher knife in one hand. "it's been fun, sweetie. It really has been. No lie. The most successful night I've had in a while. But now that we've come this far and you're in my grasp, I'm afraid to say that you won't be getting back out of here. Can't let other people snoop around, can we now?"  
  
"You... you _bitch!_ " but then I suddenly remember the newspaper headline, the one she was reading in the library, and a cold sick horror grips me. "... the... the cannibal... the killer around the city! Are - are you saying-"  
  
"I don't usually flaunt what I do, sweetheart, but I do like to warn anyone who approaches me. You didn't take the warning," she answers calmly. "don't worry. I'll make sure nobody will ever find your body. Sometimes you become my dog, sometimes you become dog food. You'll become dog food. I told you, we're all basically walking meat. It's just how it is. "  
  
"You're a monster!"  
  
The tip of the butcher knife inches closer and closer towards my abdomen, tracing down my skin, down my thighs, far too close to my groin.  
  
"Have you ever wondered what flambéed cock tastes like? I have. It's almost as if God decided to save cannibals the trouble of making their own sausage."  
  
"Please don't do this," I'm beginning to lose it. I'm sobbing. Actually sobbing. "Christina. Christina, _please._ "  
  
She sighs and shakes her beautiful head, but puts down the butcher knife by the side. "No use pleading now, Paul. Should have barked like a good dog when I asked you nicely."  
  
Pause. "But you've been a good little boy so far. I guess I can be merciful for once."  
  
This is not at all reassuring to me when she produces a little silver pistol from her handbag and points it at my head.  
  
"No! Please! I'll do anything! I'll be your dog forever if that's what you want! Christina, please, I don't want to die!"  
  
"Anything?"  
  
" _Anything! Anything at all!_ "  
  
Christina smiles. It's not a kind smile. A cold, chilling smile.  
She straddles me, looking straight into my eyes with the end of the pistol resting on my forehead, before she leans to whisper in my ear.  
  
"Would you..." her perfume is intense. Suffocating. Her hair tickles. I can't breathe. I can't. I can't... "would you... die for me?"  
  
I clench my eyes shut, tears running down my face, unable to even move or say anything through my terror. My life flashes behind my eyelids, kaleidoscopes of band practice sessions, the places I've been, my family - I see Till, Richard, Olli, Flake and all, their faces, wondering if they'll ever find my body. They won't. Nobody knows where I am. This is how it ends. All this and I can't do _shit,_ all because I just wanted some fun tonight, and it can't end like this I don't want to die _oh my god someone please help me what have I ever done wrong,_ why does it have to end this way?  
  
I can't breathe. I can't watch.  
  
Her breath tickles my throat.  
  
The cold metal of the gun pressing hard into my forehead once before being taken off it; she's not moving, though, and I hear the safety clicking.  
She's aiming for me.  
  
Christina's finger pulls the trigger back, and without warning I scream.  
  
...  
  
...  
  
Click.  
  
...  
  
Click. Click.  
  
...  
  
...  
  
Click.  
  
The smell of smoke.  
  
...  
  
... Bitch. That bitch.  
Son of a bitch, rather... the... the gun... it's not a gun, it was a fucking gun shaped lighter.  
  
All the time. All the fucking time.  
  
Ha... aha... ha ha... oh god... haha...  
oh god oh god I don't even. Wow.  
  
Holy _shit._  
  
Suddenly _his_ hand relaxes and _he_ tosses the lighter away on the floor, laughing _his_ head off.  
  
"Ah, Paul! Paul, did I do good?"  
  
Sniff. I wish I could wipe my tears away. He notices and quickly uncuffs me, and I sit up, wiping at my cheeks and giving him a smile. "Yeah, Doom. You did wonderful. _Wow._ That was incredible, just _incredible_. I honestly didn't think you'd come up with this when I told you that I've got a fetish for mind games."  
  
"Well, you did say that you wanted me to make you scream."  
  
"And you did."  
  
He's helping me up, cleaning me off with a warm, damp towel and handing me my clothes back. Even brings me a chilled beer from the fridge as well; I certainly need it for sure. Then he sits down next to me, taking off his wig, revealing tousled short hair beneath it, and kicks off his heels while massaging his right foot. "I don't know how women can walk in those. Beautiful, but they're killing me."  
  
"One has to suffer for beauty," Doom takes off his suit jacket and folds it up neatly next to him. "seriously, though, I don't think I'd have come up with the idea if you hadn't admitted that you're fond of women's clothes. Good work with the cannibal thing too, wasn't expecting that one-"  
  
He smiles wide and nods. "Good old Armin Meiwes. Disgusting, wasn't it? At least we know he's safely in prison now. Glad to know you liked. Any other comments on the performance?"  
  
I raise my can of beer. "First of all, great pick on the restaurant and the random lapses into philosophy. Kept me in suspense all throughout, Till would have been proud. I think you might have been going a tad overboard with the dogs, though. The chocolate might have been a bit of waste, though if I were Risch it might have been worse - he'd kill for a chocolate cherry, you know how he is with cherries. I briefly thought you were forgetting about the act, too, when you followed me into the bathroom..."  
  
Doom laughs and scratches his head a little. "Eheh. I suddenly got confused is all. I really did have to improvise for that one. I've never been in a ladies' bathroom before, so it felt odd as hell thinking about it."  
  
"Was it a strap-on?"  
  
"Nope. Tried to tease you a bit. Was really turned on myself, actually, and then decided you getting off was more important."  
  
We lapse into silence for a while, exhausted from the heat and suspense. I'm actually feeling sort of sleepy and shaky, somehow. We don't meet eyes for a few minutes, simply staring around the room until I finish off the beer. He then stands up. "Same time next week?"  
  
Nod. "We'll switch it up."  
  
"You got it. I think I like playing the damsel side of it more than the aggressor. Though next week we'll play it straight, male to male."  
  
"Awesome. And that does make sense. You _are_ a pretty thing, you know, Doom," he'll never know how much of a good aggressor he actually was. "no dogs this time though."  
  
"Definitely. No dogs. Besides, you know I'm more of a cat person really."  
  
I do know, my darling. He kisses me, and I hug him tightly, fitting perfectly against his body. Sometimes being shorter than the others really has an advantage, I'm at the perfect height to fit against his shoulder. His pretty little ginger tabby cat comes slinking from the other bedroom, meowing and running towards me as she recognizes my presence, her bell collar jingling merrily. "Hello, Christina," I say, bending down to give her cute, soft head a pet. She purrs and rubs against my hand. "not coughing up furballs anymore, right?"  
  
"She's much better now," Doom smiles as I pick up the cat, letting her lick my hand. A very affectionate sweetheart, she is. "oh, look at her, she loves you so."  
  
"She does, doesn't she?" I laugh, and let her down as I put on my jacket. "I have to go now, Doom. See you tomorrow. Don't forget the sheet music."  
  
"Paul?"  
  
"Hmm?"  
  
He looks kind of hesitant. Nervous. A little upset, almost. Doom leans down and kisses the top of my arm, brushing his hand against my tattoos. " _Ich liebe dich, Paul._ "  
  
" _Ich auch,_ " I tell him, and without another word, I kiss his cheek before giving him a thumbs-up, a smile and a wave as I walk through the doorway.  
  
And as I leave the apartment I make sure that I don't look back.  
  
Because why would I. I just got raped.  
Mentally and physically.

**Author's Note:**

> [Camera pans out, shows a view of a dorm room with countless German textbooks stacked on them, and pan back to SOLITARY SHADOW, sitting in front of her laptop.]
> 
> SOLITARY SHADOW: This is fucking awful.
> 
> [SOLITARY SHADOW sighs and peers into the monitor, glancing at the reflection of the [opposite wall.](http://fav.me/d4s80uh) Two posters, [one of GORILLAZ](http://i12.photobucket.com/albums/a233/shadowklonoa/IMG_0149.jpg) and [one of RAMMSTEIN,](http://i12.photobucket.com/albums/a233/shadowklonoa/IMG_0148.jpg) greet her sight. Swivel the camera over to the right slightly to reveal [a large red RAMMSTEIN FLAG pinned to her noticeboard that is taking up about 80% of the available space easily.](http://i12.photobucket.com/albums/a233/shadowklonoa/IMG_0150.jpg) SOLITARY SHADOW sighs again, stands up, and goes to her radiator to fetch her drying towel. When the towel is folded, SOLITARY SHADOW goes back to her seat again and ponders on what to do next, trying not to pay attention to TILL LINDEMANN's smoldering mentally violating rapist grin, when the fucking poster starts talking.]
> 
> TILL LINDEMANN: _Du musst jetzt ins Bett gehen, ja?_  
>  SOLITARY SHADOW: Duuuude. _English._ This ain't fanfiction anymore.  
>  TILL LINDEMANN: Oh good. You're still awake enough to make sense of all that. But still. You should get changed and get to bed. Really. [SOLITARY SHADOW does not move.] I can tell Richard to turn around for a bit if he's bothering you. You know, stud and all.  
> SOLITARY SHADOW: That's not going to help. How am I going to change into pajamas and stuff when you're perpetually looking at me like that. Staring. Always watching. Always grinning. Yeah. All of you. All the time. _Forever._  
>  TILL LINDEMANN: Says the one who put the poster up there in the first place. You know you like it really.  
> SOLITARY SHADOW: Like it?!  
> TILL LINDEMANN: Uhuh. Like it hot. And _sticky._   
>  SOLITARY SHADOW: Okay look that's just uncalled for-  
> TILL LINDEMANN: **YOU GO TO BED RIGHT THIS INSTANT FRAULEIN**  
>  SOLITARY SHADOW: **FIIIIINE. GEEEZ. KEEP YOUR APRON STRINGS TIGHT, POSTERDADDY.**
> 
> [SOLITARY SHADOW sighs again, grabs her pajamas and locks herself in the ensuite to change. After this is done, she then shuts down her laptop. Cut to the poster. Cut to SOLITARY SHADOW, looking blankly at the wall. SOLITARY SHADOW then turns to face the fourth wall, and opens her mouth, ready to utter a gospel truth.]
> 
> "Ugh, script format," she sez. "leaves a bad taste in my mouth." She then looks away, looks back at the poster, back to the bed, back to Till Lindemann, then [lies down beneath him](http://i12.photobucket.com/albums/a233/shadowklonoa/IMG_0147.jpg) and goes to bed. 
> 
> My descriptions are always too long and informative so here's something completely different that tells you nothing.  
> Who needs fanfiction? Shit just writes itself in real life.


End file.
